


The Elevator

by lola_rose



Category: Banana Bus Squad, The Misfits (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Frequent dropping of the f-bomb (oops), Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Shot, just a couple of dudes being gay, just a couple of guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24715870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola_rose/pseuds/lola_rose
Summary: John and Smitty had an argument about something stupid and are handling it in the only way they know how: avoidance. Fortunately, Smitty decides to take some initiative and solve this little issue in a very mature and responsible way. So he traps them both in an elevator. No, really.(Basically our favorite dysfunctional doofuses get stuck in an elevator and work out their issues.)
Relationships: John | KryozGaming/SMii7Y
Comments: 7
Kudos: 139





	The Elevator

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see how this goes! 
> 
> (Disclaimer: This is FICTION! Nothing in this story is real or accurate whatsoever and I do not claim to know anything about the personal lives of the people I have used as inspiration for these characters. I am merely a humble author and nothing more.)

Did you know you can almost see your reflection in your glass of bourbon if you stare at it long enough? Smitty does. 

Yeah, apparently when you spend copious amounts of time staring _into_ your whiskey rather than drinking it, you learn things about it. Things like how you can kinda sorta make out the shape of your own face and how shitty you look in the god-awful lighting of the club you’re sulking in. _Then_ you realize maybe it isn’t the sucky lighting that’s making you look like shit, but your dumb face. Your dumb, stupid, pathetic, idiot face that only an absolute _loser_ would have. 

_That’s_ the face staring back at Smitty in his glass of bourbon. 

It’s enough to make him want to throw his drink across the room. He wouldn’t. But he kinda wants to. 

There’s a song playing and it’s one of those loud, trashy pop songs that’s only good when you’re too wasted to know the difference between music and just plain noise. But the bass is booming, rattling the roof of this place, and the sheer volume is making it almost entirely impossible for Smitty to comprehend his own thoughts- for that he’s almost grateful. 

Honestly, Smitty doesn’t know _what_ he’s thinking right now- or feeling, for that matter. He knows he’s mad, and frustrated (in more ways than one), annoyed, and lonely… 

...God, he’s _so_ fucking lonely. 

There’s an empty seat next to him, and Smitty can’t help but think the person who _should_ be sitting there is somewhere else in this absolute nightmare of a club. Somewhere lost in the flashing strobe lights and the shitty music Smitty _knows_ he would never listen to in a million years, surrounded by friends- _their_ friends, mind you. Avoiding him. 

He’s avoiding Smitty. Avoiding them. This. _The situation_. 

And the sucky thing is, a part of Smitty thinks he should be avoiding it too. There’s a part of him that thinks he should knock back the bourbon, get up, and go dance like an idiot with everyone else- including _him_ \- and ignore the issue currently eating him alive from the inside out.

But he can’t. 

Smitty’s brain just doesn’t fucking work that way. He’s incapable of avoiding problems, putting issues off and assuming they’ll work themselves out on their own eventually. He doesn’t do this because he knows it doesn’t work. Shit, _it’s not working right now_! 

Here they are, both of them, not talking and ignoring the issue at hand, hoping to god it’ll go away if they pretend it doesn’t exist for long enough. But it does. It does exist and it’s _screaming_ at Smitty to do something about it. To fucking _fix this_ before someone explodes-! 

“Hey!” 

Smitty jumps with a gasp, accidentally shaking the glass of bourbon so some of it sloshes over the side of the glass and spills onto the bar. 

“Fuck you,” he says to the person snickering as they take the seat beside him. “You’re an ass and I hope you die.” 

Fitz grins at him from behind his bottle of some expensive beer Smitty can only assume is disgusting because it’s _Fitz_ , for fuck’s sake. He’s honestly surprised he didn’t waltz up sipping gasoline straight out of the can with, like, a bendy straw or something. 

“Big words from someone who looks like _they_ wanna die,” Fitz says as he leans forward against the bar, sets down the beer, and gives Smitty a fake pouty look. “Why the sad boo-boo face?” 

Smitty shoots him a Look before quickly turning his attention back to his glass. “Not in the mood,” he mumbles. 

He really hopes the conversation will end here. Fitz will shrug and walk away, vanishing into the crowd, leaving Smitty alone with his spiraling thoughts and the bourbon he‘s not actually drinking, but rather using as a metaphor for self-reflection and existential awareness. 

Unfortunately for him, he’s known Fitz for _way_ too long to ever believe this is possible. 

“Aw, come on!” Fitz prods, poking Smitty in the arm. “Tell Uncle Fitzy what’s buggin’ ya.” 

“You,” Smitty replies, slapping Fitz’s hand away. “ _You’re_ bugging me! And don’t call yourself ‘Uncle Fitzy.’ Please. That’s just… fucking weird.” 

Smitty runs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his tired eyes shut. He’s getting a headache, he can feel it lurking in the back of his skull. 

Fitz is giving him a look, considering him for a moment before he nods and says, “Okay, I’ll never call myself ‘Uncle Fitzy’ again- _if_ you tell me what’s eatin’ ya, Gilbert Grape.”

Smitty tilts his head to look over at Fitz with a raised eyebrow. 

“Everything about you is infuriating.” 

Fitz grins, picking up the beer and raising the bottle, like he’s making a toast. “Only to you, babes. Only to you.” 

Smitty snorts as he rolls his eyes and says, “Right.”

“And besides, if anyone’s being _inferior_ here, it’s you.”

“Did- did you mean _infuriating_?” 

“That’s what I said!” 

“You said ‘inferior’.” 

Fitz flaps his hand dismissively, saying, “Same thing.” 

Smitty feels his lips curl up slightly as he replies, “It’s _really_ not.” 

“Whatever,” Fitz sighs indifferently. “I’m drunk, I don’t care about words. But. I _do_ care about _you_ …” 

Then he starts laughing, slapping the bar with one hand and waving the beer around with the other. 

Smitty blinks at him, partially confused and yet still thoroughly entertained by his friend’s antics. He forgot how much of a stupid drunk Fitz is. It’s almost enough to get him to stop thinking about this shitty situation he’s stuck in. Almost. Not really, though. 

Fitz snorts. “That rhymed,” he manages to wheeze out between laughs. 

Smitty nods along, smiling in spite of himself as he props his elbow up on the bar and rests his chin in his hand. “Yep,” he says. “Sure did.” 

“Yeah…” Fitz smiles dreamily, looking at something over Smitty’s shoulder, before quickly snapping himself out of it. He yells, “Oh-!” and begins nudging Smitty’s arm again. 

His eyes are wide and he has a very cliché _lightbulb_ look on his face- like he just pieced together something important that’s been bugging him for ages. 

“I know what’s wrong,” he says. 

Smitty frowns. “You… do?” 

“Uh, yeah, duh!” Fitz takes a long swig of his beer, swallows and points at Smitty excitedly. “John!” 

Smitty stares at him, feeling his face flood with heat at the very _mention_ of his name, which… is just pathetic, really. This didn’t happen yesterday, or the day _before_ yesterday, or literally _any other day_. But it happens now because of… “the thing.” 

Smitty hates his life. 

Trying to save face- and failing miserably- Smitty purses his lips and looks away. He tries to sound nonchalant when he asks, “What about him?” 

However, he knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that they sound slightly choked, strangled in a way that aches. 

Fitz notices it too, like Smitty knew he would, and frowns. No matter how wasted he is, he’s not _completely_ stupid. At least… not stupid enough to ignore when his friend is lying. 

Or maybe Smitty’s just a really bad liar. 

Or both. 

“What happened?” Fitz asks, and he seems to sober up in an instant. It’s almost impressive. 

Smitty shrugs, opting to downplay the situation as much as possible. Lying by omission isn’t _really_ lying, is it? 

“Nothing really,” he says, tapping the glass in front of him as he intently watches the cool beads of perspiration race down the sides. “We just… had an argument. About something. It’s no big deal.” 

Fitz snorts. “Fuck you,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You two _never_ argue-“ 

Smitty opens his mouth to protest, but Fitz quickly corrects himself before he even gets a chance.

“Okay, but I mean not like _this_ ,” he says, gesturing wildly. “Not to the point where you’re _obviously_ avoiding each other.” 

“Okay, _He’s_ avoiding _me_ ,” Smitty tries to clarify, sitting up straighter in his seat and turning to face Fitz, who’s giving him a particular look that is very reminiscent of a concerned parent. 

Smitty presses on, saying, “I would be more than happy to discuss what happened, but-“ 

“Have you told him that?” 

“I-“ 

Oh. 

In one exaggerated exhale, Fitz says, “I’ll take that as a no.” 

He then proceeds to take another swig of his beer. 

Smitty sits there for a moment, thinking. Honestly? He has no idea why he hasn’t just walked up to John and told him point blank to his face that he wants to talk about the _thing_ that happened. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he just isn’t a very confrontational person, but that shouldn’t matter because it’s _John._ They know each other like the halls of their childhood homes and yet here they are, acting like total strangers. It’s enough to make Smitty’s stomach feel like it’s tying itself up in knots- the weirdly complicated ones, too. 

He huffs and slumps in on himself, leaning heavily against the bar. Then, staring down at his own tired eyes in the reflection of his drink, he asks, “What should I do?” 

Fitz doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Uh… talk to him?” 

And he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world! Like it’s the only solution worth considering, the only one that could ever possibly work. Entertaining other options would be absolutely pointless, downright stupid, even. 

“Fuck, Smit. I thought _you_ were supposed to be the smart one.” 

Smitty laughs and it’s breathy and small, but it feels real. 

Fitz laughs too, but his is a deep throaty chuckle. And his laugh sounds so familiar, it’s almost comforting. It feels like seeing a sign you know when you’ve been driving around lost and unsure for hours. In the fog. While it’s raining and it’s like- the heaviest downpour you’ve ever experienced in your life. But then you see that sign peek out of the fog, illuminated just enough by the dim headlights of your shitty car that you can barely make out the words and you know you’re almost home. 

The thought’s enough to make Smitty’s laugh fade as quickly as it came and he and Fitz sit for a moment. The pounding of the trashy techno music’s still shaking the floor beneath them, but it feels far away. Smitty feels far away. 

He asks Fitz, “What if he doesn’t _want_ to talk to me?” 

The question has Smitty’s every insecurity woven so intricately into it. _What if he doesn’t_ want _me?_ That’s what his question meant. Smitty’s terrified of the possibility that he doesn’t. He wouldn’t. He never _will_ … 

“He does,” Fitz answers without missing a beat. “He’s just being stupid. You both are.” 

Fitz shrugs and grins at him. 

“One of you just needs to stop being stupid first.” 

*** 

Smitty eventually _does_ decide to drink the glass of bourbon. 

And another.

And, like, maybe a shot of tequila or something. 

Whatever, it doesn’t matter. He needs all the liquid courage he can possibly get. 

By the time he takes an Über back to the hotel, he feels pretty good. No, seriously. 

Smitty even has a plan. A completely foolproof- guaranteed to go off without a hitch- plan. Step one: find John. Step two: talk to him. Boom. Easy. 

Fitz was right. They _are_ being idiots. And Smitty is determined to stop being an idiot first, not just for himself, but for both of them. Together. 

Smitty smiles to himself as he pushes open the front door to the hotel lobby. 

_That’s a nice word,_ he thinks. _Together_. 

He drifts through the lobby in a pleasant tipsy haze. 

If Smitty’s being honest with himself, he’s feeling pretty confident about his circumstances right now. He’s just so _sure_ , so certain that everything will work out somehow because he knows exactly what he’s feeling. He _knows_ he wants to talk to John, he _knows_ he wants to fix this- fix them. And once he can see a clear path in his mind, nothing can stop him from marching down it. Smitty’s made up his mind. He’s determined to make this shit work. 

Smitty glances up just in time to see someone- a very particular someone who just so happens to be the very _someone_ he needs to talk to. 

John’s standing in front of the elevator doors, waiting for them to open and- _God_ , he looks pretty. Even in the washed out, blinding lights of the hotel lobby, he looks good. It sucks because now that Smitty _sees_ him- looking all hot and shit like a fucking _asshole_ \- his palms start to sweat. 

Not good. 

He feels himself start to get anxious all over again. The nerves all come flooding back like a tidal wave of panic, crashing over him and nearly drowning him under a sea of doubt and frustration. But Smitty refuses to go under. He swims through the currant- breaks through the surface- and before he knows exactly what his body’s doing, he’s rushing towards the elevator as soon as the doors slide open. 

John walks into the elevator, hands in his pockets and a bored expression on his face, until he sees Smitty barreling in with him. Then his eyes go wide, and it’s almost funny. The whole “cool guy” facade shatters, if only for a brief moment, and Smitty catches a glimpse of the person underneath. The person who’s intimidated by a little _conversation._ The person who’d rather dive out of a window than air out his dirty laundry. And although Smitty can’t really blame him- there are no windows here. He can’t hide from this. Not now.

John almost looks scared for a second, absolutely terrified because he’s being forced to face a particularly ruthless adversary of his: feelings. 

But then the shock is quickly quelled, replaced with the cool nonchalance of a man who’s just pissed because he has to be burdened with the company of another human for the ten second elevator ride. He’s sporting the look of someone who knows the true horrors of social interaction. 

The elevator doors begin to close, slowly, like the jaws of a snake, swallowing them whole now just to spit them out later. The visual is enough to make Smitty’s stomach clench. He knows this is his last chance to deck out, to just say fuck it and skedaddle before it’s too late. They don’t have to do this- _Smitty_ doesn’t have to do this. 

But he wants to.

The doors click closed and they’re alone. Together. 

John sighs and asks, “What floor?” 

He knows what floor Smitty’s room’s on. Their rooms are on the _same_ floor. He just asked to be petty and needlessly dickish for the sake of being a… well, _dick_. 

“Four, please,” Smitty says, smiling nevertheless. 

John nods and it’s stiff, uncomfortably so, as he presses the 4 button on the keypad without a word. 

The elevator begins its ascent, creeping along at an agonizingly laggard pace. And it’s torture. Smitty can feel himself dying almost as slowly as the elevator’s moving.

It’s killing him, being _this_ close to John, smelling his cologne- which is sweet and smells like roses and rainstorms- but not being able to actually _touch_ him. 

_God_ , does he want to touch him. The feeling coils in his stomach until it aches. 

A part of him wants the elevator ride to be over as soon as possible. A part of him wants to bolt as soon as the doors open, race down the halls to his room, take a freezing cold shower and maybe cry a little bit. Or a lot. Probably a lot...

But an even _bigger_ part of him- the part that’s pushed him this far- tells him to keep marching down the path he found; keep swimming against the tide. 

Make this _right_ , goddammit! 

Smitty reaches out and slams his palm down on the bright red emergency stop button. 

The elevator immediately jolts to a sudden stop, shaking so violently Smitty stumbles into John, who shouts a string of colorful words into the air and struggles to keep his footing. 

“Why would you do that?!” He yells, shoving Smitty away. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?!” 

Smitty feels his body go still, dangerously so. He can feel the anger building up inside him, curling around his throat. He asks, “What’s wrong with _me_?” 

Smitty knows he sounds crazy when he laughs- loud and manic- like some kind of depraved lunatic who has finally taken a dive off the deep end. But, in all honesty, he’s been losing his mind all fucking night. He decides, _screw it, we’re here, right?_ Smitty wants them to talk, might as well yell a bit first. 

“You know damn well what’s a matter with me.” 

John huffs, throwing his arms in the air as he shouts, “No! I don’t, actually. What I _do_ know is that you’ve trapped us in a little metal box dangling hundreds of feet in the fucking air!”

Smitty narrows his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “We need to talk.” 

“Text me!” John says, raking his fingers through his hair. “Call me- fuck, e-mail me for all I care. There are better ways of reaching out to someone than trapping them in an elevator like a fucking psycho!” 

Smitty rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck you, like you would have replied.” 

“You don’t-“ 

“Yes! Actually I do know that, ‘cause you’ve been avoiding me all fucking night and I’ve had it! We need to talk about this.“ 

John’s laughing when he says, “There’s nothing to talk about!” 

“Bullshit! You-“ 

A series of chimes echo through the elevator and Smitty feels his body jolt as both boys frantically look around in search of the sound’s source.

Smitty sees John looking up at something and follows his gaze to a speaker in the ceiling. They keep their eyes trained on it as a female voice- _way_ too controlled to be human- begins to speak. 

“Attention,” it says, “you have activated the emergency stop procedure. As no dangerous activity is being detected, we will begin with the process of getting the elevator moving once again; this will take approximately ten minutes. Until then, we appreciate your patience and do try to remain calm. Thank you.”

As soon as the voice finishes its little announcement, jazz music, which Smitty assumes is meant to be relaxing, begins filtering out of the speaker. It’s nothing that he immediately recognizes, not that he knows much about jazz, anyway, but the idea of this nice ass hotel having to play royalty free jazz music in their elevators is enough to make Smitty crack a small smile. 

Said smile, however, fades almost instantly when John starts bitching again. 

“Awesome- fucking super!” He shouts up at the speaker, like this whole thing is _its_ fault. “Just when I thought this situation couldn’t possibly get any better.”

Smitty glares at him from his unestablished- yet somehow still totally established- side of the elevator and says, “Oh, shut up, it’s only ten minutes. Don’t be a baby.”

John snorts. “Yeah? That’s rich coming from the person who literally just threw a whole tantrum because someone didn’t wanna talk to them.” 

“Ah-Ha!” Smitty yells, clapping his hands together and turning to point at John with wide eyes and a grin because _this-_ oh, he’s totally got him with this! “So you admit there’s something to talk about!”

John stares at him. He has one eyebrow raised like a jackass. 

“... What.”

Smitty rolls his eyes. “You just said you ‘don’t wanna talk to me,’ which implies that you need to talk to me, you just don’t _want_ to.” 

“You’re insane.”

“If by ‘insane’ you mean fed up with this fucking game we’re playing then, yes, I am insane! But you’re an asshole.”

John huffs incredulously as he jabs a finger into his own chest. “ _I’m_ an asshole? Seriously?!” 

“Well, if the shoe fits, Princess!”

John crosses his arms and shifts his weight to his side, jutting out his hip in a way that is so annoyingly sexy that Smitty is _very_ confused as to whether he wants to punch him in the throat or shove his tongue down it. Or both. He’d really like to do both… 

“You know,” John says, “you’ve got some serious balls to trap me in an elevator, chew me out for god _knows_ what, and insult me, all in the span of… roughly two minutes? That’s _gotta_ be some kind of record.”

“Fuck. You,” Smitty sneers back.

“No, actually, fuck _you_.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

They both huff in annoyance as the unbearable weight of agonizing frustration topples onto them and turn away from each other to face the elevator doors. And it’s quiet as fuck, except for the damn jazz music playing on overhead. 

Smitty’s reflection stares back at him in the doors, just like it did in his glass of whiskey. He looks tired, threadbare in the kind of way where he’s moments away from either breaking down and sobbing or passing out from sheer exhaustion. But, at the same time, he looks _pissed._ There’s an anger raging in his eyes like the wicked roar of a forest fire. It’s almost scary how easy it is for two incredibly different emotions to coexist inside of him. It also makes perfect sense. 

Lately it seems like John- his face, his voice, his _everything-_ makes Smitty feel a million and one things all at once. Right now he’s standing next to the human embodiment of sensory overload. Everything about John is overwhelming… at least, it is to Smitty. 

The air around him is electric, buzzing with this- this energy that you can _feel_ but not touch. And it’s suffocating, but it’s free. Smitty doesn’t think he’s ever felt more alive, but he’s dying. Because this stalemate they seem to be stuck in is killing him. _John_ is killing him. The way he looks at Smitty like he’s just daring him to do something, _anything,_ all the time. The way he laughs and it sounds like a thunderstorm you wouldn’t mind getting caught in. The way he smiles and it’s _everything_ because it’s a diamond in the rough sort of thing- so damn hard to find, but so precious when you do. 

Smitty wants it. He wants _all of it._

_This_ is what he realizes when he’s staring at himself in the elevator doors. _This_ is what he realizes when he lets his gaze shift over to John’s reflection- distorted and a little fucked up, but beautiful. _So fucking_ _beautiful_...

He _wants_ this wonderful contradiction of a person standing beside him. Smitty wants everything; he wants all the broken pieces, just so he can spend hours pouring over the puzzle, putting it back together and loving it every step of the way. 

Smitty’s mad- oh, god is he mad- but what he realizes is… _no one has_ ever _made him feel this way before._ John’s the only one. The only one who has ever had the incredible ability to drive him this far up the wall. To make him feel everything. All at once. 

He wants this to work _so_ fucking bad, and he’ll be damned if he lets it go without a fight. 

“No,” Smitty says, breaking the silence. “It’s not fine.”

John groans. 

“I’m serious!” Smitty yells, turning to watch John shove his face in his hands. “You don’t get to just… _pretend_ like it never happened.”

John, looking almost as tired as Smitty feels, runs his hands over his face and asks, “What the fuck are you _talking_ about?” 

“You _know_ what I’m talking about!” 

“Look, I have no idea what-“

“I KISSED YOU!”

The second silence is almost as deafening as the first. They just stand there, each looking at the other with something in their eyes neither can read. 

John doesn’t do much- _can’t_ do much- but stare at Smitty, absolutely stunned. He looks taken aback, thrown for a fucking loop. Like he forgot the kiss ever happened at all, like this is the first time he’s hearing about it. 

But Smitty knows he knows. He knows John remembers everything about it, too. The way it felt, how it tasted like the gross, cheap beer they were drinking that night for whatever reason. Smitty knows John remembers because… how could he forget? 

“And you kissed me back.”

That too. He also did that. Smitty knows he did because he felt it. 

“Can we stop pretending it didn’t happen, now?”

Smitty thinks that’s the worst part: the pretending. The lying, the beating around the bush, the acting. Whatever you wanna call it. He hates it. 

He’s not a confrontational person, never really was, but a part of him would rather call it out and fight about it rather than act like it doesn’t exist. There’s an elephant in the room, let’s fucking talk about it. 

John opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s looking at Smitty with the eyes of a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He’s got the look of someone who sees their fate hurtling towards them at an alarming rate, the look of someone who can see their impending doom rapidly descending upon them, but they’re incapable of stopping it.

And Smitty thinks it’s kind of stupid because, holy shit they’re just talking about a kiss! ...Right? 

When John finally speaks, it sounds a little bit like, “... I didn’t- I don’t. I don’t want to-“

“What? What do you-“

“WOULD YOU STOP INTERRUPTING ME!”

And Smitty does. Actually, he stops doing everything. He even thinks he stops breathing for a moment. 

The two of them just stand there, staring at each other. Again. 

Smitty’s never heard John yell… well, not like _that_ , anyway. There was anger in his voice, but it was teetering on the edge of too much. Too much, too quick, too soon. Too many emotions to comprehend at one time. He sounded broken and unsure of how to pull himself back together. Smitty feels his heart sink to his stomach at the thought. 

John takes a shaky breath and says, “Please…” 

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine, I just- I don’t know…” 

If he’s not mistaken, Smitty thinks he can see tears welling up behind John’s eyes. But those tears are gone as soon as he blinks and turns his head away.

John sniffs and folds his arms over his chest, like he’s protecting himself from something. He keeps his eyes trained to the floor and uses them to trace the pretty swirling patterns in the carpet to distract himself from… _this_. Them. 

Smitty thinks, _this is a fucking mess._ He also thinks about how he’s kind of an asshole for pushing so hard. Maybe he should have just left well enough alone? It’s not like he and John wouldn’t have ever spoken again- they would have. Every conversation would have been laced with some weird, unbearably suffocating sexual tension, but, if Smitty’s being quite honest with himself, every conversation _before_ the kiss was full of those things too. So nothing would’ve been different! 

Maybe they’d forget about it one day. They’d meet up in person again and be able to look at each other without thinking about ‘That One Thing That Happened That One Time In Boston.’

They could have just… y’know… _let it go._

But they can’t now. Because Smitty had to go and bring it up. Quite aggressively too, actually. He’s an asshole, he’s sure of it. _God_ , if he would’ve just left shit alone they wouldn’t be in this mess. They wouldn’t be stuck in an elevator. They wouldn’t be fighting. Their whole relationship- everything they built, so quickly, yet so carefully- wouldn’t be crumbling down around them right now. 

Smitty’s ready to just throw in the towel and admit this was stupid. All of his dogged determination has all but disintegrated… kind of like his self-esteem. He really wants to just end the conversation all together. Cut the argument off with an “actually, nevermind” and be done with it. They could wait for the elevator to be fixed in complete silence, then walk to their separate rooms when this is all over. They’d never have to speak of it again. 

Smitty thinks this is a pretty solid plan and he’s about to suggest it when John says, “I wasn’t ready for you to tell me you made a mistake.”

Wait. What? 

“... What?”

“I- okay,” John finally looks up from the floor, but he doesn’t look at Smitty. Instead, he watches his hands as he fidgets with the rings on his fingers. But Smitty’s watching his face and how his brows are drawn together in silent, calculated concentration. “I knew once you realized- you know- what you did, you’d tell me you fucked up and that it was an accident and it’d never happen again and I wasn’t really, um, ready to hear that so-“ 

“Woah, hold on!” Smitty protests and he swears John jumps when his eyes- wide and a little terrified- latch onto him. 

Meanwhile, Smitty flinches when he realizes he totally just interrupted again like a dick, but he pushes on anyway because fuck the whole _not talking about this_ idea. (What kind of pathetic idiot came up with that?) They’re working this shit out _now._

“I’m sorry for butting in,” he continues, “but that is the most bullshit thing I’ve ever heard!”

John blinks. “Sorry?”

“Once I ‘realized what I’d done?’” Smitty scoffs. “I mean- what the fuck are you talking about? Are you calling me stupid?”

John’s eyes practically bug out of his head when he jumps to deny this. “What?! No I-“

“Are you sure?” Smitty crosses his arms over his chest and pops his hip out, but he has a feeling it’s nowhere _near_ as sexy when he does it. “‘‘Cause to me it sounds like you don’t think I’m capable of being responsible for my own actions.” 

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant that you didn’t mean to- you know…”

Smitty frowns. “You just repeated yourself.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You totally did. You used different words, but they meant the same thing.” 

Smitty watches the fight leave John in the way his shoulders slouch and his jaw unclenches. 

He knows they’re done arguing. The white flag of surrender is flying above them and the war is over. 

The first thought that crosses Smitty’s mind is, _Thank God…_

The second is, now that the firing has stopped, and all is quiet, he can fix this. _Really_ fix this. Fix them. 

Smitty sighs. “Look,” he begins, “I didn’t kiss you on accident. Actually, I uh… I don’t even think that’s possible…” 

John laughs and it’s… well, it’s not really a ‘laugh,’ per say, but rather an exhale of air through his nose. It still counts though. It’s enough to make Smitty smile, anyway. 

“... And why would you think I was going to tell you I made a mistake?”

John throws his hands up and lets them fall to his sides, slapping his legs as he says, “Fuck, I don’t know! Maybe because it’s-“ he gestures at Smitty. “You’re _you_ and I’m… _me_ and…”

Then he trails off, shrugging like he’s all out of the right words to say. 

Smitty takes a moment to consider what he believes John’s trying to get at and comes to this conclusion: It’s all bullshit. 

So he says, “You… jumped to a conclusion regarding _my_ feelings?” 

John winces. “... I guess?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“That’s… accurate.”

Smitty rocks back on his heels, groaning up at the ceiling as he runs his hands over his eyes. 

“Okay,” he eventually says, looking John in the eye from all the way over here on his side of the elevator. “You don’t get to dictate what I’m feeling. You don’t _know_ what I’m feeling. And I can’t tell you if you shut me out and try to pretend like everything’s fine when it _clearly_ isn’t. I kissed you because I _like_ you, dipshit! And I would never apologize for either of those things. I’m not sorry. I don’t regret it. And I’d gladly kiss you again.”

John raises a tentative eyebrow and asks with the utmost sincerity, “... Really?”

Smitty uses every ounce of strength he has left to stop himself from bursting into hysterical laughter when he replies, “Yes! You have a hot mouth!”

And he does. Holy shit, he _absolutely_ does! It’s ridiculous. 

“I…” John cracks up before he can finish what he was trying to say and the sight of him laughing makes Smitty grin so wide the corners of his mouth begin to ache. But it’s worth it. 

Finally, John pulls it together long enough to ask, “I have a hot mouth?”

“The hottest!”

And that’s the end of that. There’s no more holding it together. They dissolve into lunacy, laughing like total idiots. And it feels so _good_ to laugh again. Smitty feels the weight of the entire world being lifted from his shoulders with every exhale of breath and, once it’s gone, he finally realizes how heavy it truly was. 

Uncertainties carry an exorbitant amount of weight. There’s a wicked kind of burden you carry around when you’re waiting for an answer and making guesses in your head. Once you know the truth, regardless of what it may be, you can finally drop the unknowns you’ve been dragging along behind you. And it feels incredible. 

Smitty thinks his lungs are going to collapse, along with his legs. He wonders if John would catch him if he fell? Probably. 

When they manage to collect themselves again, John asks The Question. The big one, the mother of all questions that determines where they’re going to go from here. 

“So… are we cool?”

Smitty smiles. “That depends… are you going to promise to stop assuming the worst and actually _talk_ to me before I have to trap us both in an elevator in order to have a conversation?”

Now John’s laughing again and Smitty’s still grinning like a dork when he says, “Hey, I’ll do it again! Don’t fuckin’- fuck with me, alright?” 

“Alright! Okay,” John tells him, laughter fading. “Yeah, I promise.”

“Then yeah,” Smitty nods, resolute as hell. “We’re cool.”

“Cool.”

Now they’re back to staring at each other. But it’s different this time… gentle, almost. There’s no anger in it, no heat. It’s just nice. 

Without really thinking about it, Smitty goes to take a step forward when the elevator shakes. Yeah, _shakes._ A tremor ripples through the tiny box and causes Smitty to lose his balance. He stumbles across the floor, but John reaches out and catches him before he can fall. 

The elevator continues to tremble, the literal ground beneath their feet vibrating as the thing starts to move again. But Smitty can’t bring himself to care. 

His hands tense where they’re pressed against John’s shoulders as his eyes travel up the length of his neck and stop when they reach his face. Smitty realizes he can hear his fucking heartbeat in his ears and he feels weirdly hyper-focused to the way John’s hands are squeezing his upper arms. 

They’re close enough that Smitty could count John’s eyelashes if he wanted to- he doesn’t, but he _could._ He’s a little too distracted though, especially by the way John’s eyes seem to glimmer even in the sickly yellow lighting of the elevator. He’s also very concerned with why the hell they’re not making out right now. So Smitty decides to fix this issue immediately. 

He closes his eyes and pushes up on his toes just enough for John to move his head down and press their lips together and- holy shit, this fucking _rules_! 

Smitty’s thinking about how this kiss is _so_ much better than the first one because there’s no uncertainty in it. This one just makes sense. There’s no maybe in the way John’s hands fall from Smitty’s arms and run down his back to his hips so he can pull them even _closer._ There’s no guessing when Smitty moves one of his hands into John’s hair where he gives a small fistful a harmless experimental tug and smiles into the kiss when John makes a noise in the back of his throat because, _hell yeah I_ knew _he had a hair thing._

 _This_ is what he expected kissing John to be like. The constant push and pull of taking and giving. Their first kiss felt like high school- two people just taking a shot in the dark for the hell of it. This kiss is different. This is fucking _college._ It’s real and deep, tough, but gentle in all the ways that matter. Smitty can taste the spearmint gum on John’s tongue and it’s _everything._ This is everything. He doesn’t even _like_ spearmint and he distinctly remembers telling John multiple times how disgusting that gum is, but now he thinks it’s his new favorite flavor. 

Smitty feels like his bones have all but liquified; John’s the only thing keeping him on his feet. Then he feels him push his fingers under the hem of his shirt and brush against the bare skin of his back- just above his waist- and his knees buckle as he makes some sort of involuntary sound into John’s mouth. 

He’s done for. This is it, this is how he dies. And you know what? He couldn’t be happier. 

Smitty’s perfectly fine with suffocating in the smell of roses while John presses his mouth to his neck, sighing through his nose so the warm air brushes against the space beneath the lobe of his ear. 

It’s a strange feeling, falling. Smitty feels nothing but air in the pit of his stomach and he feels like he’s about to collapse, so he wraps his arms around John’s neck and holds on for dear life- even going as far as gripping the fabric of his nice shirt where it’s pulled taut against his shoulders. 

Then John does something with his teeth against his throat and Smitty feels a shock of electricity tear through his body, sending ripples of chills up his legs, across his chest, and down his arms. He feels his mouth fall open and hears himself start to gasp, but John cups his face in his hands and swallows the sound. 

Smitty’s brain isn’t really processing much, it’s just white noise- static. His body, on the other hand, is aware of everything. Every place where John is touching him is, like, _amplified_ in his mind; right down to how cold his rings are where they’re pressed against the curve of Smitty’s jaw. 

Regardless of how brain-dead he currently is, Smitty does know one thing for a fact: he’s fucking putty in this boy’s hands. And he’s okay with that. He’s wanted this for WAY too long, _nothing_ is off limits. 

In fact, Smitty has half a mind to reach out and hit the emergency stop button _again_ and let John shove him against the wall and do… whatever he wants. Right now. Right here, in a fucking _elevator_. 

The thought- honest to god- crosses his mind, but it’s there, loud but brief, and then it’s gone, replaced with a mantra of _yes_ and _please_ and just- John’s name over and over again. 

Smitty’s tugging on the collar of John’s shirt and thinking about how it’s _so_ in the way right now when the elevator makes a little _ding_ sound. Smitty knows it does, he hears it, but it sounds so far away. Especially because he feels like they’re hovering somewhere in space right now, a billion light-years from earth. 

But they’re not floating out of orbit among the stars, they are, in fact, in an elevator. An elevator that has just arrived on the fourth floor. The doors open, but the two don’t notice. They do, however, manage to jump apart in record time when they hear the undeniable sound of someone wolf-whistling sharply from the doorway. 

Smitty has a hand pressed against his chest where his heartbeat is hammering away somewhere down in there, but not just because the whistle scared him though... obviously. 

His body’s still wracked with pins and needles and his eyes are having a _very_ difficult time focusing on anything, but he still manages to look up and see Swagger leaning gingerly against one side of the doorway and Fitz snickering behind him. 

“Well lookie what we have here!” Swagger comments happily, like this situation is entirely normal and no one should be uncomfortable or embarrassed at all. “Got ourselves a couple ‘a lovebirds, huh?”

Smitty feels a wave of heat flood over his face as he hugs his arms to his chest and looks away from the scene in the doorway. Out of the corner of his eye he sees John flush as he attempts to hide under his mop of curly brown hair with a smile and Smitty can’t help but grin as he thinks, _christ, he’s adorable_. 

“I was wondering when these two were gonna get their shit together,” Fitz muses and Smitty’s grin slides off his face as he shoots him a glare. 

“Fitz, what are you even doing here?” He says, “I left you back at the party like- an hour ago.”

Fitz shrugs. “We figured we’d follow you back here. Mainly ‘cause we’re staying at this place too, but also because we wanted to make sure you two stopped acting like pussies and actually did something about-“ he gestures between John and Smitty- “ _this_.”

Swagger snorts. “Yeah, but by the time we got here we were informed that one of the elevators was out of service because _someone_ pressed the emergency stop button,” he grins wickedly. “Wonder who that could’ve been.”

Smitty rolls his eyes after he looks around and realizes everyone’s looking at him and says, “Oh, fuck you guys! I did what I had to do for the sake of-“

“Dick?” Swagger butts in at the same time Fitz suggests, “Love?” 

Beside him, John chuckles and mutters, “Two _incredibly_ different mindsets.”

Smitty looks over at him and smiles, “I like Fitz’s answer better.”

“Yeah? Well maybe-“

“Okay, Jesus Christ, would you two cool it with the goo-goo eyes?” Swagger interjects (once again) as he huffs in a poor attempt at sounding annoyed- he’s still smiling. 

Fitz shakes his head as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “I changed my mind. I think I prefer them when they’re fighting.”

He doesn’t. 

*** 

When Smitty’s back home a week later, he goes out and buys a pack of spearmint gum. He was right, it is his new favorite flavor. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Whew! First fic ever in the bank, baby! 
> 
> I've been writing for years, and reading fanfiction for even longer, but I never wrote my own fics and, even if I did, I would NEVER have posted them. I usually stick to original works, short horror is kinda my niche, but I'm taking a break from one of my bigger projects and needed to relax with something light and fun- so here's this! 
> 
> This was not beta read because I don't think it's serious enough for that? It's just a little one shot so who cares, right? Anyway, if it was trash well... that's why lol. 
> 
> But, hey, if it WASN'T trash I'd love for ya'll to tell me! I've discovered taking a step back from big projects to write little fics like this is actually really fun and if anyone enjoys my writing and wants to read more of my stuff, I would be more than happy to oblige. 
> 
> Well, that's it from me for now. Until next time, I hope you all have a day as wonderful as you undoubtedly are! <3 Lola


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